Reborn as the Black Knight - Chapter 4 (Patreon)

“So what happened there?” asks Sir Knight, pointing at the letter that had been lying under the bed, collecting dust, a large finger pointing at a line that declares her catastrophic failure during an attempt to cast a healing spell during her tutelage at the magical academy before she was thrown out.

(Acacia) has FAILED to cast: [Minor Bolt]

The girl, holding her hands together like she’s been doing for the last ten minutes, purses her lips together, her cheeks puffing out as she holds her breath in exertion, a vague magical glow collecting around her fingers but never quite coming into any coherent shape or form.

She tries again, perhaps for the dozenth time.

(Acacia) has FAILED to cast: [Minor Bolt]

The air leaves her face, her head drooping down as low as her hands, which point away from Sir Knight, whom she had been aiming at.

It’s quiet for a time as she stares at the floor, embarrassed. “You know what happened,” she mutters quietly, her voice fading into the half-dark room that they stand in. It’s night, but the sounds of the city continue to move in through the muted walls and ceiling of the basement storage room she lives in. The city might be asleep and so the streets have quieted; however, the adventurers’ guild right above their heads really comes to life at night and is as noisy as can be as adventurers and people of the city celebrate their lives and make no effort to hide in, laughter, stomping, and conversations easily moving through the wood.

It’s true. He does.

Sir Knight looks down at the letter again. During his arrival in this world, he somehow arrived as a presence connected to Acacia in mind and body. He absorbed a large chunk of her thoughts and memories, adding them to his pool of knowledge. In a way, he knows everything about her life — likely too much, actually — as is the case when someone steals a copy of one-hundred percent of your memories, no matter what nature of banal, embarrassing triviality they stem from. Everyone has their own day-to-day secrets.

But they don’t need to talk about that.

However, knowing memories isn’t the same as knowing the emotions connected to them and those that stem forward from there. His connection isn’t a permanent stream to her mind; rather, it’s like he just gets to look at the drawing of it from an outside perspective. He can see what happened now and then, but it isn’t the same as being inside the drawing.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, folding the letter back together. “Do you like magic?”

Acacia looks up at him and sighs, leaning sideways against the wall and crossing her arms. After a moment, she turns her head to look at the back corner of the room, which is suddenly very interesting, apparently. This is surprising, given that she could touch it if she fell down from where she’s standing. The room really is very cramped.

“I’m a noble,” she says. “I should have amazing magic,” explains Acacia, shaking her head. “My sisters, everyone else… they’re… something else,” says the girl, finally looking back up at him. “And so am I,” she says, the statement referring to her in a different context than her family.

“But you’re not good at it,” says Sir Knight.

“It’s not just that,” she replies, looking down at her hands. “It’s not like I’m super untalented or something; it's just…” she shrugs. “It just doesn’t work.” She aims her hands at him again. “I really pushed my nose into the books. I really, really practiced, but…”

She closes her eyes, trying to focus.

(Acacia) has FAILED to cast: [Minor Bolt]

“I don’t know why,” she says, looking at the residue that sizzles away from her fingers, the broken glow fading into nothing. “I thought I could break past it if I tried really hard, but that didn’t work.”

“I see,” explains Sir Knight, the unspoken secret in the room being that he knows that she already has an idea as to why her magic doesn’t work, and she knows that he knows, and he knows that she knows that he knows. In essence, this conversation is one of social form rather than pure esoteric pragmatism.

It’s her illness, which struck her unusually early in her childhood. The magics of a top-tier noble family was enough to keep her alive in spite of it, but that doesn’t mean the Consumption didn’t do any damage. She suspects that it damaged the spirit-body connection during her developmental phase, what is commonly referred to as the ‘seal’ by the healing practitioners of the world. It’s what separates a physical body from the spirit-world.

However, the name is somewhat misleading. It’s rather more like a flood-gate than a seal. It can open and close to varying degrees, allowing specific amounts of magic to flow through a person’s body — as much as it can handle. Too much, and the body will be overwhelmed and destroyed. Too little, and a person will dry out, their spirit withering within a husk of a body that has no life-force to it.

However, in her case, this metaphorical floodgate, the seal, has melted from the illness. It’s turned into an inflexible blob with only a few pinprick holes here and there, leaking enough magic from the soul to sustain her life on a delicate pendulum, but not a drop more than that.

The simple truth that both of them are aware of, even in this moment, is that casting magic is likely just unreachable for her. Full stop.

This is a dead end.

This is very rare in the general population as a whole.

While obviously not everyone is amazingly gifted in magic to the extent of being able to become a powerful wizard or caster of some nature, everyone has at least a little reservoir to use for more mundane things, such as crafting spells for non-combat classes such as craftsmen or carpenters.

No matter what, she is never, ever going to cast a successful spell. The two of them know this because she knows it.

The total amount will, forevermore, remain less than one.

“If you can’t become a caster, you can still swing a weapon,” he explains. “What you said yesterday is true. If you’re strong, our work will be easier,” says Sir Knight. “Moreso, adventurers will recognize your strength,” he explains, his head leaning crooked against the shaking ceiling above so that he fits.

(Acacia) has FAILED to cast: [Minor Bolt]

Sir Knight watches as she nonetheless tries again, gritting her teeth in frustration.

(Acacia) has FAILED to cast: [Minor Bolt]

“- They aren’t interested in a weak person,” he says, making the point clear.

Acacia stops, looking at him. “…You think I’m useless too, then, huh?” she asks, finally giving up and lowering her hands, now for good.

“No,” says Sir Knight. “You just need something to add to yourself.”

She shakes her head. “Brave Sir Knight,” says Acacia, lifting her nose. “You wouldn’t be asking me, Lady Acacia Odofreudus Krone, heiress to this nation, to do something as lowly as lifting a weapon?” she asks. “I have people to do this for me,” says Acacia, looking at him intently.

Sir Knight shakes his head, reaching into his cloak. “No, Your Majesty,” he replies, pulling out something. “There is something else that you can wield, however,” he says.

_______________________________

It is the next day.

“Good to see you again,” says the man, the merchant whom Acacia sold the looted armor from the enemy attack to days ago. “What’ll it be today?” he asks, looking at her curiously.

Acacia smiles, moving a strand of her hair to the side. “I’m surprised you remember me,” she replies, keeping a friendly demeanor. “Good morning. I’d like to sell some things if you’re interested,” says the girl. “Goblin weapons, teeth, and some equipment. Standard dungeon fare.”

“Oh? You get started in the dungeon?” he asks. “Well, look at you,” says the merchant, eyeing her over. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” replies Acacia. “I hire out,” she throws into the room. She casually slides a list onto the counter. “What’s your rate for these?” she asks.

He looks at her in perplexed surprise before glancing over the inventory list, suddenly much more interested in her business than last time. “Hmm… well, it’s nothing crazy,” he says, eyeing the items, somewhat unimpressed at first. “Oh, wow, but you got a lot,” he remarks, shifting his tune. “Your people must’ve been busy all day to collect this much.”

“Something like that,” replies Acacia. “We’re just getting started,” she explains. “If you’re interested, I’d like to start bringing deliveries of this nature regularly.”

He blinks, looking away from the paper and at her, somewhat taken aback.

She plays with her hair, looking around the store, which is otherwise empty of customers. “— If your operation can handle movements like this,” she adds, her voice taking on a rather listless tone as she stares into the room.

The man clears his throat, the subtle social game that is now at play here having reached a point where it is his turn to make a move out of his disadvantaged position.

In their prior encounter, when she had sold the looted armor, she had presented herself as someone who could be taken advantage of with no recourse, someone from the lower class, desperate to make money.

Now, this might be true in a manner of speaking, but it doesn’t help her to let him know this.

Today, she played the room.

The simple statement of her ‘hiring out’ —  implying she has adventurers working for her, which signals money. The act of her taking a larger interest in the man’s business as a whole rather than their immediate business together signals she isn’t desperate, and finally, her insinuation that could be considered rude — implying his business isn’t up to the task — was in essence a call-out to a gentleman’s duel.

They’re in a social fight for dominance now. The social class of merchants works under a similar set of rules to the noble families. They consider themselves elevated from the common people, and so they work on a copied, downgraded version of noble etiquette — like a child pretending to be its father at work, it mimics the movements, but they are fundamentally different and lower grade.

She got so immersed last time in her life as a commoner that she forgot all about her training as a proper noblewoman, perfectly able to disarm an opponent in situations like this.

Acacia looks at the merchant, who is eyeing her up and down. She’s a cut above him at this game.

This is her weapon.

A smile comes to his face, his expression calming as he collects himself, a realization coming to him. “Well. I see,” he says. “Just carry everything inside then, and we’ll get started,” he says. “You’ll manage without me today, right?” he asks. “Otherwise, I’ll have to charge a convenience fee.”

This is his counter.

If she’s really so well off as she’s portraying, then why did she act so sadly last time?

A sharp, well practiced and witchy cold laughter fills the room as the girl stands there, a hand covering her mouth. It’s impolite in proper society to laugh with an uncovered face. These subtle movements make a difference. They sell it.

And it works. The man’s confident expression, brought on by his counter offer, falters in the face of this simple gesture. He’s not used to be contested at all.

“Mr…?”

“Kaeufer,” he replies. “Like on the sign outside.”

“Mr. Kaeufer,” says Acacia, rather plainly. “I was willing to humor you last time for the sake of novelty,” she explains, looking at him and shrugging as she shakes her head. “It’s fun to be a little adventurous, you know?” asks the girl. “But I won’t be carrying anything today.” She looks at him. “I have people for that. Mr. Kaeufer.”

She whistles.

The store grows dark immediately, the sunlight of the day being blocked away by the shadow of a mountain that lumbers past the windows, pressing itself into the frame of the door as if the night had come in the middle of this sunlit morning, entering in through this man’s door.

The wood of the floor creaks as his heavy frame steps onto it, the old boards screaming as if for their lives as the giant, his helmet scratching the ceiling as he walks inside, carrying a large sack that he plops down onto the counter.

She looks at the shocked and terrified merchant. “I would have, however, assumed a professional business of your caliber would have an apprentice to handle this sort of dirty work, Mr. Kaeufer,” says Acacia, placing another well set knife into his heart. “Thank you, that’ll be all,” she says, waving her hand; the giant looks at her and then at the merchant for a moment before lumbering silently back outside.

He stands there, dazed for a while, his defeat being clear as the day that has now returned. After Acacia clears her throat to get his attention, he stiffens up again and looks her way. “I’ve… uh, I’ve been meaning to hire an apprentice,” stutters out the merchant. “My apologies, I wasn’t aware that you were…”

“That I was what, Mr. Kaufer?” asks Acacia accusingly, leaning over the counter and tapping the list.

Obviously, the answer to this question is ‘a serious customer’, or at least someone worth paying attention to, so ‘not poor’. But obviously, a professional merchant wouldn’t ever outright say that, even to a low-value customer. However, it is clear as day that he deemed her as such, and now he’s been proven wrong.

This puts him on dangerous social footing. If it is really true and she is a person of reputation, that can become a real problem for him and his business, not just with her.

“— Nothing,” he relents, taking the list. “I’ll give you two… I mean three-hundred for this delivery.”

“Three-fifty,” replies Acacia dryly. “And I expect you’ll be more professional in our next encounter, Mr. Kaeufer,” she replies, the man looking her way. “I would hate to have to inform anyone of a poor impression of your business.”

And just like that, it’s over.

The man is dead.

— Not literally.

But in the context of the social duel of theirs, it’s over. He’s not only been beaten but decimated to the point of total, incontextual destruction. His only saving grace is that nobody else is around to have seen it happen except the two of them.

“Yes, my apologies, Missus…”

“Miss. Krone,” replies Acacia as he slides out the money that she takes, not counting it. Counting the money is something for the help to be doing. It’s another gesture. Poor people count their money in public, as they have little recourse through other avenues if wronged. “I look forward to seeing you again soon, Mr. Kaufer,” replies Acacia, leaving the store with the money in hand and nothing more than that.

She even keeps her composure until she quietly walks around the street and into a dark alley, where she starts jumping around in excitement, swinging her arms, and shaking Sir Knight, who appears from the shadows in joy at her success.

“Did you see that?!” she asks excitedly, not able to contain herself. “Sir Knight!” she beams, looking at him, her tiny arms latching onto his forearms that her hands come nowhere close to wrapping around.

“I saw,” he says, nodding. “Great work,” replies the haunting presence, watching her as she lets go, clenching her fists as she stamps around in a small circle.

Very uncomposed for someone who is to be the highest noble of the nation, the calculated, stoic, and put together queen of a kingdom.

But that’s just in theory. Right now, pragmatically, she’s a beat-down person who just landed her very first hit back against the world. Her count of wins after months of this life, for the first time in any context, tally up to a number that is greater than zero.

Sir Knight watches as her face glows as she looks at him; something very different now as a repressed child comes through, breaking out of the shells of noble dignity and commoner’s hardship for just a brief moment. She plants her hands on her hips, swaying her head as she makes a face. “He was all ‘I’m gonna be a slime today’ and I went ‘Not with me and…”

Acacia stops, falling quiet as she stares at him, her words trailing off into the alleyway.

A second later, she clears her throat, standing up a little straighter as she seems to realize that she let her happiness get the best of her. In noble society, this is very bad form. Such displays signal a clear lack of control, which is a problem when one is in charge of land, people, wealth, and most importantly, power.

— Not that he minds. He finds it good to watch.

Acacia looks to the side, down toward the ground, as if there were something very interesting there to think about.

In his previous life, he wasn’t exactly surrounded by bright joyfulness. So in a way, seeing this outburst is refreshing and fun in its own way. He likes this. It’s an expression of life lived, of the results of a day that are more than nothing.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” asks Sir Knight, referring to the game of pretend that they’re playing here, a game that is, so far, bearing fruit. She turns her head, looking at him skeptically as he lifts a hand, holding out a fist.

“Sir Knight,” starts Acacia. She raises an eyebrow, wiping a strand of her hair out of her face. “What are you doing?”

“Hit me,” says Sir Knight, reaching down and grabbing her wrist, bumping her fist into his.

“Huh?” she asks, looking as their fists connect. “This is uncouth behavior, Sir Knight,” says Acacia, pulling her hand free and closing her eyes. “But I will allow it to pass this once,” replies the exiled noble, opening an eye to look at him. “If only for the sake of my own honor.”

He plants his hand over his armor. “Your grace knows no bounds, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t forget it,” says Acacia, turning around and lifting her nose as she walks away, down the alley, the coins noisily clinking loudly on her belt in their satchel as she makes what most would consider a very dignified exit.

— If only she didn’t look down then at the last second to see the fat, giant rat that is sitting on a heap of old trash, staring at her, causing her to scream, fumbling over herself and some broken furniture to escape.

____________________________________

“Sir Knight,” says Acacia in a bitter tone, her lips tightly pursed as she stares up toward the sky with a gaze as rigid, blank, and fixed as brick and mortar.

It is a little while later. They are in a little square, on a bench, further away from the adventurers’ guild and close to the dungeon.

— She winces as he wraps the now somewhat wrinkled bandage he just bought a moment ago, with a generous tip for the vendor, around her scraped wrist and palm. “You will never speak of this,” she orders.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replies the giant, pulling the bandage taut.

She had tried to wrap it herself at first, but didn’t quite manage, resulting in the bandage needing to be undone and redone by someone else — namely, him, as there obviously isn’t anybody else.

Whether her order applies to the rat and her moment of embarrassment, or this scene here, is indistinct. But he’s bound to follow the order.

However, given its vagueness, there is a little leg room, so he decides that it applies to this act of her needing to be bandaged by him and not to her falling because of the rat. He wants to hold that one over her later sometime. It was funny.

She makes a long, protracted groaning sound.

“I’m almost done,” he says.

“Everyone’s looking,” she says quietly, not averting her gaze from the sky, so that she doesn’t have to meet the faces of the people who have either stopped during their ways about the city, or are simply turning their heads as they walk past the two of them.

“Good,” replies Sir Knight, tying the bandage closed.

“Good?” she asks.

He nods, folding her fingers closed as he returns her hand to her. “Look into the window,” he instructs. “Where we just bought the bandage. Don’t be obvious.”

Acacia lowers her gaze, her vision sweeping over the spot, over a few people who are watching them — or more aptly, Sir Knight — as she turns her head toward him, as if he were the goal of her movement. However, as she moves her head, she sees behind the window of the apothecary that they were just inside of a familiar face; the alchemist woman, from whom she buys her medicine.

The young princess lifts her hand, flexing her fingers, as if to show him.

“The merchants are all connected,” he explains to her, looking at her confused expression. “What happens at the general store, happens at the alchemist,” says Sir Knight, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to help her up. “What happens at the apothecary happens at the shoemaker.”

She takes his hand as they play the roles of servant and master in public, rising to her feet.

That’s why they overpaid for the simple bandage.

It wasn’t generosity. It was a feigned display of wealth and abundance. Their act from before, during the sale of the goblin loot, is only one part of the dance. This here too is another manipulation, another step of the pattern. It’s no good playing their game on one stage and then rejecting it on another. The game must be played on all stages equally, or suspicion will arise.

The merchants are all from closely related families and guilds, and word spreads fast among them.

Acacia stares at him

“…How did you know?” she asks, letting go of him as they start to walk, pushing through a crowd that has little shame in following them. “How are you so good at this?”

Sir Knight walks in silence for a time before looking down at her. “I…” starts the man, his haunted voice, very unfitting for the brightness of the day they’re in, shaking her. “- had a lot of free time.”

Acacia sighs, perhaps having expected something deeper for some reason, and shakes her head before then stopping and holding her hand over her mouth as she coughs, her sigh breaking as if she had exhaled incorrectly somehow.

[Illness: The Consumption] has increased in severity.

Applied status: [Exhaustion]

“…Oh…” she says, looking at the window that appears before her as she manages to clear her throat, her eyes blinking deeply as if she were trying to unblur them. “Hey, I think that I’m going to go lay down for a bit,” she says, looking at him. He nods, Acacia staring at him for a moment, opening her mouth to say something but then instead says nothing, walking off toward the cold basement where her bed is.

Sir Knight watches her leave and then turns his head, looking at the city.

She didn’t say, but he knows what she would have said, had she been able to do so.

“You’re welcome,” says the man nonetheless, turning the other way toward the dungeon. There’s work.

 __________________________________

Music plays on the square, the sounds of strings being plucked chiming amongst the babbling water of the ring channel and the voices of hundreds of people moving around the city and the dungeon-gate. The area is absolutely packed with foot-traffic from all directions.

Likely unlicensed street vendors, having set up impromptu places of sale on the plaza, sit on the floor near the water on rugs, laid out with displays of equipment from the dungeon or trinkets of many kinds. Sir Knight examines the wares, hoping to find something suitable, as people push past him in all directions.

As always, there is a significant amount of interest. He’s just… very out of place. There are others here and there with his stature, yes. However, the regal armor, the flowing cape, and the imposing state of his rather grim exterior as a whole set him apart in a way that gives him the look of someone important, someone rich and famous — not just another adventurer in dungeon looted plate-mail.

— A shrill whistle blows through the air, cutting the peace. He turns his head to look as a troop of city guardsmen work their way through the crowd, chasing after someone, presumably a thief by the looks of the scene.

However, the popularity of the market makes it impossible to really see what’s happening. Eventually they run past him, a few of them sparing him a wary glance, and he returns to his shopping.

“How much for this one?” he asks, pointing down at a merchant’s wares, his shadow towering over the quietly gulping man who offers him an unusually fair bargain.

_________________________

The adventurers’ guild.

Sir Knight steps inside the building, looking around the tavern. Given that it’s the middle of the afternoon, most adventurers are out in the dungeons and on the outskirts of the city, making their living. So for the most part, it’s empty, apart from a few tables here and there. The building’s interior is made of a warm, reddish-yellow wood that catches every single ray of the sunlight that enters in through the large, wide windows, soaking in the dayglow. Many tables fill the room, with hastily arranged and improvised benches and chairs.

Straight ahead is a counter, above which is an inner balcony lined with doors to private rooms.

The few people who had been here enjoying a small lunch or anything akin to that look his way as he steps inside, closing the door behind himself.

From behind the counter, straight ahead of him, a very nervous woman lifts her gaze — the receptionist.

Sir Knight walks toward her, with the receptionist at first keeping her composure, given that she sees all sorts of things in this line of work. But by the time he reaches the counter, somehow she is further away from it than she was a moment ago, her back pressing against the shelf of bottles behind her.

“H- how can I help you?” she asks, looking at him as he stands there.

Sir Knight points at a quest-board. “I want a job,” he says.

“Ah, I uh, of course!” she replies. “Do you have your adventuring license?”

“I do not,” replies Sir Knight.

She sighs, perhaps in relief. It’s hard to say. The woman holds a hand over her chest and then bends down below the counter, pulling out a slip of paper. “Then you’ll have to get one before you’re allowed to take public quests,” she explains, sliding it over the counter. The woman adjusts the collar of her shirt, carefully pointing at a few things. “You’ll need to prove you’re able to do some dirty-work.”

Sir Knight looks over the sheet.

It’s a list, mostly consisting of monster parts and other things of such a nature.

“The guild requires all fledgling adventurers to be able to handle themselves, so that there isn’t any misunderstandings about the nature of the wo-” She stops as a wet, thick splatting fills the room, her finger still in the air as she lowers her gaze, looking down at the counter and at the live, living slime wobbling there that Sir Knight had pulled out of his cloak.

“…It’s supposed to be dead…” she mutters quietly, looking at the list that begins to disintegrate beneath the very confused slime.

“You didn’t specify,” replies Sir Knight. “The list said slime drops,” he says. “Here’s your slime drops.”

She stares at him, grabbing a plate from behind herself and holding it between her and the slime for safety’s sake. “…The… The list also says…”

— Sir Knight pulls out a stack of bloody goblin teeth, their roots still connected, and sets them down, the gore smearing the wood of the bar. A loose goblin eyeball, that maybe shouldn’t have been there, rolls over the wood and plops down on her side by her feet.

Pursing her trembling lips, she looks up at him. “I uh… this is… this is very unorthodox, you kn-”

Sir Knight leans down over the slime that seems content to spread itself around the wooden bar, soaking up the crumbs and sticky stains present on the surface and disintegrating scraps of paper floating around inside its body. “- Do you want the mushroom caps too?” he asks, the bottles behind her rattling from the growl of his voice and her trembling.

She quietly shakes her head. “I- I think we’re good here…” gulps the receptionist. She, holding the silver platter in front of herself, slowly leans down and grabs a card from below the counter, awkwardly shuffling sideways to a stamping station, and then pressing a seal against it. A small glow fills the room for a second.

Carefully, she slowly slides the card across the counter, yelping in terror as the slime snaps toward her hand, trying to eat it but missing.

Sir Knight nods, pulling the freshly made adventuring license out of the slime and shaking it off, the droplets of acidic goo burning holes in the wood. “Thanks. It’s all yours,” he says, patting the monster as he walks behind the counter, taking a quest from the bulletin board.

(Normal Quality)[ADVENTURING LICENSE]

This is an adventuring license. The possessor of this document as well as all affiliated party-members are able to officially be granted access to all adventuring guild mercantile and domestic facilities.

Fees and charges apply according to individual services and regions.

“Wa- wait!” she calls out after him. “Help me with the slime! Don’t just leave it here!”

Sir Knight turns his head to look at her and then looks at a table next to him, recognizing the group of adventurers as being the same ones he met in the dungeon the other day. The priestess, thief, and swordsman. They’re low-level and working their way up.

“Want a quest?” asks Sir Knight, looking at them.

The swordsman eagerly nods, much to the detriment of the priestess and the thief, who couldn’t have hidden herself further away in the room if possible. Sir Knight places down a hundred Obol coin on their table, easily a week's wages for one of them. “Take care of that slime for me, please,” says Sir Knight.

“You got it!” yells the swordsman, jumping to his feet, his palm slapping the coin, and pulling it toward himself. The priestess is trying to pry it away from him in desperation, crying about the devaluation of his soul or something like that.

Sir Knight doesn’t really pay the rest of the situation any mind as he leaves.

He’ll need an adventuring license if he’s going to help Acacia. Thankfully, it was easy to get. With this license, he’ll be able to ‘officially’ join adventuring parties and take on real, guild sanctioned jobs and quests. Importantly, Acacia will be able to do so too.

As for the receptionist, she was cruel to Acacia once when she was looking for work, so fair is fair. Plus, this helps build his reputation, not only with the young adventurers, whom he’s hoping to win over, but also within the city as a whole.

— Now there are just two final things to take care of.

Sir Knight walks around the corner of the guild, heading into the alleyway, and stops there out of sight.

He grabs hold of his cloak, lifting the fabric up and out to the side. “You can come out now,” he says.

It’s quiet for a time, other than the noises of the city.

But then, a hooded face slowly peers out from inside his cloak and looks up his way with sharp and very confused blue eyes. The presumed thief from the dungeon-market earlier who had ran his way to escape the guards and, having had nowhere else to go, slipped behind his cloak in an act of desperation like a child hiding behind some curtains.

Under normal circumstances, this would have obviously never worked. The guards aren’t stupid enough to oversee something like that.

A hand reaches out of the matter absorbing fabric, as if surfacing from a body of water, and then, a moment later, the rest of the person falls out and scrambles over the stones of the alleyway as they half lose their footing. The small stranger scurries, clutching something against their chest as they run toward the main road. For a moment, they turn to look back his way to see if he’s chasing them, but then, seeing that he isn’t, they continue the great escape, vanishing into the busy street with their prize, whatever it was, in their arms.

“You’re welcome,” says Sir Knight, his body turning into smoke as he fades away, his essence trickling down the small, grody staircase and beneath the cracked door of the tiny room.

___________________________________

Acacia

It’s always cold down here.

Acacia turns, her breath collecting visibly in the dark air of the underground room. The few, rare rays of light that manage to not only break into the alley but then find their way through the tiny, ground-level windows do nothing to warm the space, instead acting more as a mocking reminder of the things one doesn’t have.

She turns in bed, clutching the blanket over herself as she rolls the other way, her eyes opening to stare at the dim, gray wall that she sometimes looks at. There’s no real reason. Sometimes, she just lays there with her eyes open when she can’t rest and stares at it, at the cracks and the roughness of its texture — just vacantly — emptily.

Her head rolls as her vision wanders downward, and she slowly sits upright, looking down at the springtide, patterned, heavy rug that now covers the cold, stone floor. It’s hard to make out in the dim light of the room, but around its edges are depictions of many ducks, walking around it in a circle around the center depiction, that of a very simple green meadow with a warm sun on its backdrop.

In the residence of a noble, bringing in such a gaudy, lowbrow thing would be enough to have any servant be dismissed from service together with their entire generation of family members.

Acacia’s tired head flops back down onto the pillow as her eyes wander down, staring at the ducks instead of the wall.

— At something instead of nothing.

It’s stupid, and it doesn’t make any sense, but she finds it easier to fall asleep then for the last of the day and then for the night that follows, indifferent to the noise of moving glass down below in the darkness beneath her bed.

In her delirious, sleep-addled state, she attributes any happenings of the night, be they frightening noises or disturbances from the outside in the alley, not to any horrors or nightmares, not to cruel people who are after her or to indifferent people who are just as ready to throw her away, but instead, to ducks.

As one does.

“Quack…” quietly mutters the noble-blooded girl, shortly before falling asleep.